Life and stories are alike in one way: They are full of hollows. The king and queen have no children: They have a child hollow. The girl has a wicked stepmother: She has a mother hollow. In a story, a baby comes along to fill the child hollow. But in life, the hollows continue empty.

The beach has a language of its own, with its undulating ribbons of silt, the imponderable hieroglyphs of bird tracks. The receding waves catch on innumerable holes in the sand. Bubbles form and fade. A new language, with a new alphabet.

It's one thing to keep secrets. It's quite another to lie.

You could at least complain,” I say. “I adore complaining. It calms the nerves.

It's strange how a person can have a distinct distaste for herself, but still she clutches on to life.

Meaning. If you're going to die, you want to find meaning in life. You want to connect the dots.

I was asking about lust, wasnʼt I? I was fairly certain of it. But isnʼt love supposed to come before lust? It does in the dictionary.